I thought my husband was working tirelessly to secure a better future for our disabled sons. I didn’t know that the truth about his “late nights” would set off a reckoning led by the one person he never expected.
I used to measure time by my sons’ medications.
Seven in the morning meant muscle relaxants for Lucas. Fifteen minutes later meant Noah’s seizure medication, and by 8 a.m., it meant stretching exercises before breakfast.
By 9 a.m., I already felt as if I had worked a full shift.
I used to measure time by my sons’ medications.
You see, three years ago, Lucas and Noah, my twin boys, were in a car accident while my husband, Mark, drove them home from school. The boys survived, but the crash left them disabled.
Lucas could barely move his legs, and Noah needed constant help due to brain trauma.
My entire life shifted overnight.
Physical therapy appointments, wheelchairs, bath chairs, adaptive utensils, and lifting two growing boys who depended on me for everything.
The boys survived.
Now, don’t get me wrong. I love my boys more than anything in the world, but caring for them over the years was exhausting in ways I never knew existed.
Most nights, I slept in short bursts. Maybe three hours. Sometimes four, if I were lucky.
Meanwhile, Mark always seemed to be at work.
He worked at his father’s logistics company. His father, Arthur, built the company from nothing.
Mark had spent years telling everyone that one day he’d run it.
I slept in short bursts.
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